


Naked

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Intimacy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Emotional Intimacy, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Trust, physical intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"... well—it’s a bit of a leap from kissing to prancing about the flat fully nude, don’t you think?”</p><p>Sherlock looks predictably lost.</p><p>John takes a deep breath, and then lets out a long-suffering sigh.  “Sherlock, how would you feel if you were sitting out here doing one of your bloody experiments, and I just waltzed out of the loo and started fixing myself breakfast completely starkers?  Hmm…?”</p><p>Sherlock’s lips inch up at the corners into a pleased hint of a smile he can’t seem to suppress.</p><p>John rolls his eyes heavenward.  When they light upon Sherlock again he is smiling in earnest, a smile that is all soft and sly around the edges, and not even trying to hide it’s flirtatious intent.</p><p>“Jesus Christ…”  John mutters, and shakes his head, stares down at the wooden table top, suddenly having to fight an unexpected smile of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naked

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Closeted", and Part 2 of the "Naked" Series.

“Do we have ice?” 

John glances up from his seat at the kitchen table, peeks around the edge of the morning paper and is completely knocked for six by what he sees—Sherlock, leaning into the freezer, fresh out of the shower and without a stitch, his pale, smooth arse only a foot or so from John’s face.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!  Why are you naked?”

“It’s hot, and I had my shower too hot.  I’m hot.”

“Okay.  But why are you naked?”

“Ah!”  Sherlock pulls an ice tray off the shelf and turns around.  “I just said, I’m…”

“Fuck.”  John drops the paper and flops face-first into the nest of his folded arms.  His face feels hot.

“What’s wrong?”  Sherlock sounds bored.

“Sherlock!”  John mutters from the shelter of his arms.  “Put something on.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?!”

“Are you—bothered?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Uh, yeah.  But, you’re not a patient.”

“You really mind?”

“I’ve just said.”

“But we’re…”

When everything in the kitchen goes silent except for the ticking of the clock, and the quiet hum of the traffic outside, John finally dares a peek over the edge of his arm.  

Sherlock is staring down at the floor, skin dotted here and there with drops of water dripping from the end of his curls.  And John’s eyes sweep over the whole length of him on instinct, from furrowed brow, to peaked nipples, to flaccid, flushed cock resting in a nest of damp, dark curls, long lean thighs, bare feet, toes wiggling against the wood floor.  

John licks his lips and lets out a small huff, and Sherlock’s eyes snap up.  “It really bothers you?”

John forces himself to focus on Sherlock’s eyes.  “A bit.”

“But we’re…”

“We’re what?”

“On Sunday…  Bunbury’s surgery?  The closet…?”  Sherlock raises a brow as if to indicate he thinks that John is being willingly obtuse.

“Oh yeah, well—it’s a bit of a leap from kissing to prancing about the flat fully nude, don’t you think?”

Sherlock looks predictably lost.

John takes a deep breath, and then lets out a long-suffering sigh.  “Sherlock, how would you feel if you were sitting out here doing one of your bloody experiments, and I just waltzed out of the loo and started fixing myself breakfast completely starkers?  Hmm…?”

Sherlock’s lips inch up at the corners into a pleased hint of a smile he can’t seem to suppress.

John rolls his eyes heavenward.  When they light upon Sherlock again he is smiling in earnest, a smile that is all soft and sly around the edges, and not even trying to hide it’s flirtatious intent.

“Jesus Christ…”  John mutters, and shakes his head, stares down at the wooden table top, suddenly having to fight an unexpected smile of his own.  He snorts out a trembling breath, and shakes his head again, before looking back up at Sherlock.  

He’s still grinning.

“What?”

Sherlock just continues to smile and holds his gaze without a word.  

John opens his mouth to say something, but it seems he’s forgotten how to breathe.  

The heat in Sherlock’s gaze only intensifies.  

John swallows dryly, and finds his voice at last.  “No…  Sherlock, I’m not…”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just let’s his eyes drop, drag slowly over what’s visible of John’s body, and John feels his face heat.  His cock doesn’t seem to be entirely disinterested in the proceedings either.

“You look warm,” Sherlock offers.

“No,” John repeats.

“It’s at least 26 degrees in here.”

“I know the temperature.”

“And yet, you’re still so—buttoned up.”

“No, Sherlock.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks, and John’s eyes betray him by instinctually dropping to Sherlock’s cock when it gives a small twitch of interest.  

He looks quickly away.  “Fine.  I’ll take off my shirt.”

Sherlock smiles in response, cat that’s got the cream, and then turns around and goes to the sink to fill a glass with ice water before returning to the table and sitting down in the chair across from John.  He takes a sip from the glass, sets it back down, and then leans back and waits in silence.

John let’s out a small huff of pique, but starts unbuttoning his shirt none-the-less.  Every time!  Every bloody time!  How is it that Sherlock always manages this, manages to make him forget any and all objections, makes even the most reasonable of them seem insignificant and unimportant?  

He yanks the shirt from under the waistband of his trousers, shrugs out of it, and then holds it up for Sherlock’s perusal, before dropping it to the floor.  “Satisfied.”

“Yes…”  Sherlock’s tone has dropped at least a half an octave, and John can feel it in his bones.  

Sherlock takes another swallow from the glass, his eyes never leaving John’s over the rim.  “You _were_ warm.”  He nods in his direction.  “You’re all flushed.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“Yes.  I know.”

Sherlock sips his water, and let’s his eyes wander.  

John should go back to reading the paper, but he can’t seem to look away.  Why can he never look away?!  He just stares, feels his body flush in betrayal, respond in ways that are going to be very obvious if he needs to get up from this table.  

“Feel better?”  Sherlock asks.

“Not particularly.”

“You’re still too warm.”

“No…”  John shakes his head.  “I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

Sherlock lets out a small sigh, and finally looks away.  “Do you want me to go put something on, then?”  He traces small trails on the tabletop with his fingertips and looks horribly sulky.

John should say yes.  He should.  But he doesn’t really want to.  

“What if Mrs. Hudson comes up here?”

“She’s at her sisters, John.  You know that.”

John did know that, but had conveniently forgotten.

“Fine. Trousers only.”

Sherlock is momentarily lost.  “What?”

“I’ll take off my trousers, but the pants are staying.”

Sherlock’s answering smile is smug, but to his credit he says nothing.  When John masterfully manages to slip his jeans off under the table, completely hidden from sight, however, he looks much less pleased.

John has to bite back a sigh.  The relief is instant, not only in temperature, but in the sudden freedom this allows his swiftly burgeoning erection.  He’s in a bad way.  It’s ridiculous.  This has never happened before.  Not in Sherlock’s presence, at any rate.

And that is when Sherlock quite purposefully knocks the pen sitting on the table near his elbow onto the floor.

John scowls.

Sherlock grins.

“Sherlock…”

But it’s too late, Sherlock dips out of site for the briefest of moments to retrieve the lost item. 

John rolls his eyes again.

When Sherlock reappears, his eyes are a little wider than before.

John arches a brow.  “See anything you like?”

Sherlock smiles, full and radiant, but bites it back instantly, and then looks down and away just as quickly.  There is a definite blush spreading across his chest, up his neck, tinging his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink.  

_Well then…_   The relief in knowing he is not alone in his mild consternation, is incredibly freeing.

“You okay?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.  His face is bright red.  “Fine.”

John smiles softly.  “Sure?”

Sherlock nods, but his eyes drop to the table again.

John clears his throat, his mouth dry.  He takes a sip of his tea.  “You did get yourself into this situation you know,” he teases.

“Shut up,” Sherlock mutters in return, but there’s no venom in it.  If anything he sounds a little embarrassed.

“So…” John ventures after a moment or two of pregnant silence.  “What do you think we should do about this situation?”

Sherlock snaps his head up so fast that the swiftly drying curls on his head give a little bounce.  “Do?”

“Was there an end goal to all this—nakedness, or…?”

Sherlock just blinks at him.

John purses his lips, and nods with a tiny sniff.  “So you thought about as far as the flirting, and then just sort of—what?”  He shrugs, “thought you’d fly by the seat of your pants?  Not that you’re wearing any pants, but you know…”

Sherlock swallows, soundlessly opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, and then finally lifts a hand and waves it in John’s general direction.  “Well, I didn’t actually think you’d…”

John cocks a brow.

“And I didn’t know you’d…”  he nods in the general direction of John’s concealed erection.

“You came waltzing out here naked, and didn’t think I would respond to that in any way?”

Sherlock purses his lips.  “Well—you never have before.”

John’s taken a little off guard.  It’s true.  It _is_ true, but only because…  “Well, a) you’ve not streaked through here _completely_ naked before, and b) I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Sherlock scowls.  “What?”

“I didn’t think you wanted it—me—it.  I…  Fuck.”  He rakes a hand through his hair.  “I didn’t think you—did _that_.  I wasn’t sure _I_ did that.” 

“Did what?”

“Oh for, fu…  This!”  John motions between them.  “Whatever this is, or was leading up to—the flirting, the—wanting to see me naked.  You really want to see me naked?”

Sherlock’s face is still a brilliant shade of beet.  He schools his features into his best impression of innocence before replying.  “I thought that was _fairly_ obvious.”

“Well, yes.  But, you look a little—unsettled.”

Sherlock eyes flutter away to the floor.

“All that smiling when I suggesting making breakfast in the nude, and the staring, and the mentioning that I must be awfully hot all buttoned up.  There was conscious intention there, right?  I mean you were hoping I’d get my kit off?”

“Hoping, yes.”  Sherlock’s voice is soft, and almost a little sad.

“And then…?”  John leads, gently.

“I don’t know, John.  I—I just wanted to see you.”

“Oh.”

And Sherlock does look up then, takes a trembling breath.  “It was—it was good what happened in the closet the other night.”

John nods.  “Yeah, it was.”

“I meant everything I said.”

“Me too.”

“I—I didn’t really think past that, John.  Everything else is—vaguely defined.  I’ve no baseline, no way to really know what I want, and I—I want it to be right.”

John nods.  “Okay, okay…  We’ll figure it out.”

“How?”  And Sherlock sounds anxious, bordering on desperate.

“Hey—We will okay.  Trial and error.”

“Trial and error?”  Evidently this was not what Sherlock was hoping to hear.

“Yeah.  We—we’ll try stuff, and if we like it, then we can do it again, and if we don’t, then off to the skip it goes.

“But what if it’s wrong?”

John huffs a little in frustration.  “There _is_ no _wrong_.  There’s just _like_ or _dislike._ And there’s only one rule.

“What rule?”

“If you don’t like it, you say stop—any time, for any reason—and I stop, and vice versa.”

Sherlock shrugs.  “Well obviously, John.”

John breathes out a small laugh, as a rush of fondness washes over him.  “So what will it be?  Are we going to sit around watching crap telly, and eating ice lollies in our altogether.  Or would you like to go somewhere a little more comfortable?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and he lets out a breathy chuckle before replying.  “Bedroom?”

“Yours, not mine.  It’s too hot upstairs.”

“Yes.”

“And bring a bowl of ice for behind the fan.”

John rises from the table, relieved that his arousal has started to flag.  Still, he can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he heads down the hall to the bedroom.  Once there, he suddenly feels a little lost.  

He can hear Sherlock fetching a bowl and filling it with ice.

“Refill the trays!” he calls, and smiles when he hears Sherlock sigh loudly.  “You’ll thank me tomorrow.  It’s supposed to be even hotter.”

John paces the length of the room and back.  Wardrobe to dresser, back again.  After a few minutes it gets quiet in the kitchen.  John walks over and peeks down the hallway, only to catch Sherlock doing the same.  He laughs, Sherlock smiles in return, and there is an instant, blessed break in the tension.  “Come on, then.”

Sherlock hurries down the hall, places the bowl behind the fan, and flicks it on before flopping onto his back on the messy unmade bed.  He looks gorgeous.

John smiles down at him.  “You want my pants on or off?”

“Whatever you want, John.”

“I’m okay with either.”

Sherlock’s eyes run the length of John’s body twice, stop and linger on his cock.  “Off.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock lifts a hand to his mouth, and chews delicately at the fingernail of his thumb as John strips.  He looks nervous and hungry all at once.  And John let’s him look.  He wanted to look, so let him look.

Sherlock’s face has gone red again, but if he’s got a renewed case of nerves, he seems undeterred.  “Turn around,” he suddenly orders.

“Okay.”

This is the oddest thing John has ever done in the bedroom.  Usually he’s quite perfunctory about these things—strip hurriedly in the dark, stumble into bed (half-drunk a lot of the time), engage in the necessary amount of foreplay, ensure his partner comes before he does.  All’s well that ends well.  He’s not particularly creative, and though he rarely gets accolades, he doesn’t really get complaints either (well, not usually).  He considers himself a competent and considerate lover.  But this—this is strangely intimate, and a little—weird(?).  But then, this _is_ Sherlock.

“Can I…?”

John startles a little at the sound of Sherlock’s voice so close.  He hadn’t even heard him get out of bed, but he’s hovering over his left shoulder, now, close enough that John can feel the heat of his body, feel the soft waft of his breath against his hair.  He turns to see Sherlock staring down at the scar from his old exit wound.  

John nods.  “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“It bothers you sometimes, especially in poor weather.  Will it hurt if I touch it?”  Sherlock’s voice is hushed, and he’s got a single finger hovering just a few millimetres from John’s skin.

“No.”

“Sure?”

John nods, “It’s mostly nerve and joint ache, but the scar tissue itself doesn’t really…”

But then Sherlock is pressing the pad of his pointer finger lightly against the puckered flesh, and it’s strangely electric.  He just leaves it there for a moment as though taking a pulse, and then, after a beat, starts tracing lightly over the the small mountains and valleys of scar tissue, the raised white lines of skin hastily patched together, incorrectly healed, and then cut and mended again.  

John sighs, and then shudders, involuntarily.

No one has ever touched him there.  No one’s ever wanted to.  Mary had asked the history of it once.  He’d told her in vague, shadowy terms.  No detail.  He can’t talk about it.  He’s never talked about it, not fully, not even to Ella.  So it is a shock now, when Sherlock’s gentle, probing touch brings a hitch to his breath, a suffocating tightness to his chest and a bite to his eyes, when it breaks something wide open inside of him, and he starts to slip swiftly and precariously downward.

All the memories of that routine patrol gone horribly wrong— _the pillaged village, bodies, bloody and dismembered in every house (local people he knew, had talked to only a few days prior), little Aamir beside the bloodied body of his sister, gun in his trembling hands, terror in his eyes, Wilson firing when John had expressly ordered him not to, and Aamir firing on reflex as he fell, his bullet ripping through John’s shoulder, the resulting ambush from the insurgents still hiding in the nearby hills_ —rush in and overwhelm him.  It had all gone to hell in an instant, and he still wakes screaming sometimes.   But now, like a needle set to a record long abandoned on the shelf, everything lives again in rich, horrible, full-stereo sound.

The shaking starts first, followed quickly by mortifying, unquellable tears, the sort that start out a mere unbidden prick at the corner of your eyes, but escalate quickly into something you have no control over.  John makes a move to leave then, sees a passing flash of Sherlock’s stunned face as he makes for the door, and that is when his knees give out.  

Sherlock’s voice, a reassuring murmur, patches of warm against his back, and a blanket being draped over him, Sherlock saying something, guiding him to the bed, tucking more blankets around him, and then suddenly behind him, drawing him in against his chest.  

“It’s okay, John.  You’re alright.”

He should tell Sherlock it’s fine.  He’s fine.  To leave.  To…  He should apologise.  If this was anyone else he would have pushed them off and left by now.  He’d just walk out and never come back, because how do you ever recover from something like this.  First time out, and here he is a pathetic, slavering mess.  Nothing like this has ever happened to him in his life, and of course it _would_ have to happen now, when it matters the most, with the one person who matters more than…    He’s just been given the biggest chance of his life, and now he’s lost it before it’s even begun.

“Just breathe.  It’s alright.”

John reaches out blindly behind him.  It’s instinct.  He’s drowning.  After a moment, he feels Sherlock’s hand take his, his arm wrap around and bring their entwined hands to rest over against John’s chest.  

“Sor—sorry,” John finally chokes.

“It’s alright.”  Sherlock’s thumb is stroking the back of his hand, his lips are pressed into John’s hair, every word he speaks like a kiss against his scalp.  He can feel the rhythm of Sherlock’s pulse, his heartbeat echo through his own body.  And just like a few nights prior at the surgery, he feels himself start to calm.

“Jesus, I—I’m sorry.” John says again, because he is, he’s _so_ sorry, and he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Why?”

John doesn’t know—not really.  It’s just all gone bottom up, and it’s not right.

“I didn’t know, John.  I didn’t know or I never would have asked.  You could have said _no_.  One rule, remember.”

John swallows thickly and is embarrassed by how much he wants nothing more than to burrow more deeply into the surrounding warmth that Sherlock provides.  “I didn’t know either.”

“Oh.  So, that’s never…?”

John shakes his head.

He feels Sherlock nod behind him.  After a few moments of silence…  “John, if this is—we don’t _ever_ have to…  I mean, if you…”  Sherlock huffs in frustration, takes a deep breath, let’s it out slow before beginning again.  “You’ve been very indulgent with me, and if I’ve pushed this somewhere you never wanted to go, if this isn’t something you want, it doesn’t have to be a part of what we have.  It’s never been a priority for me, you know that.  I can do without.”

John shakes his head.  “No!”  He rolls over, a challenging task in the tangle of blankets, but he needs Sherlock to see.  “No.  This isn’t about that Sherlock.  This was…”  He jerks his head toward his shoulder.  “This was specific to _that_ , okay.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen momentarily, in understanding. 

“Please don’t go.  Stay.  Here.  Like this—please.”

Sherlock nods, and John let’s his eyes slide shut.  They lay quietly for how long, he can’t tell.  The light changes a little in the room, the traffic outside grows heavier with the lunchtime rush and then staves off again.

John finally shifts a little, and swallows thickly.  “I’m hot.”

“Too many blankets?”

John nods.

“Take them off?”

He nods again, and Sherlock helps him, until they are both completely exposed.  Sherlock’s eyes flutter over John’s body, never landing any one spot for long.  His brow is knit with worry.  

“I’m okay,” John assures.  “I’m sorry about before.  I’m okay.  Really.”

Sherlock looks unsure.  “What do you need, John?”

“What do you mean?”

“From me.  When we’re like this.  What you want?  What do you need.  It will sincerely help me if you can be specific.”

John just shakes his head.  “I—I don’t know.  I…”

Sherlock shrugs, looking suddenly very vulnerable.  “Well what do you usually like?  I mean, before, with…”

“I’ve honestly never given it much thought.  It always just sort of—happens.”

Sherlock blinks.  “But you end up—satisfied?”

“Oh.  Oh yeah, yeah, always.  I mean…  Well, usually.”

Sherlock raises a brow.

“Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

“Release?”

“That, and…”

John sees the moment Sherlock understands.  And for once, ONCE, he isn’t going to have to explain, thank god!

“That didn’t seem to be a problem a little while ago in the kitchen.”

John’s mouth twitches into a smile.  “No.  No, it didn’t.”  He suddenly feels ridiculously shy.  “Listen, I’m sorry if I’m making this difficult.  I’m just not used to—talking about this kind of thing.  I’ve never really been in the kind of relationship where you…”

“You were married.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know, but we—we weren’t ever really like that.”

Something whispers over Sherlock features, something that looks very much like smug satisfaction, but it is gone again before John can be quite sure.

“What about you?” John asks, desperate to get the attention off him, at least for a little while.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.  What do you want?”

Sherlock shifts a little, beside him.  “Just this.”

John smiles.  “We’re just lying here.”

Sherlock nods.

“This is all you want?”

“No…”  Sherlock looks up and away, considering, trying, John supposes, to find the right words.  “To be allowed to look at you, to touch you, even in little ways, even when we’re not like this, when it’s just the mundane, the day-to-day.  For you to trust me, feel safe with me.  To be able to say…”  He takes a deep breath.  “To be able to say all the little things I’ve always wanted to say, but never could.  To be allowed to say them whenever I like, and to know that they please you.  That you want to hear them.  Just—just to be allowed to love you, John, whenever I like, in whatever ways you need.” 

John just stares.He knows he should say something.Sherlock looks increasingly small and anxious.But he doesn’t know what to say.Sherlock could have come straight out and said, ‘I’d like very much for you to let me tie you to this headboard and fuck you into the mattress,’ and John would have honestly been less shocked and more comfortable than he is now.

This isn’t something he ever planned for.  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t feel things that way.  Well, apparently he does, and to an extraordinary degree.  But John has never had this, done this.  John doesn’t know _how_ to do this.  He’s completely out of his depth.  He knows companionship.  He knows loyalty to friends, to family.  He knows lust, and attraction.  He doesn’t know this.  He has absolutely no frame of reference for this.  He feels like a bird, born in a cage, who has suddenly been offered the sky.

“I don’t know what I want.”  It’s the most honest thing John thinks he’s ever admitted.  “I don’t know what I need.  I don’t know how to—I’ve never had that.”

Sherlock looks down at the small patch of mattress between them.  When he looks up again, his eyes are soft.  “Could we just try things?  Like you said before?”

“Sherlock, before, that was—I was talking about sex.  Deep kissing, sucking or tossing one another off—fucking.  This is—I think you’re talking about something else—something deeper.”

Sherlock’s eyes drop away from his again, and this time the ineffable sadness is obvious.  He nods.  “And you don’t want that.”

John aches to touch him.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know how to have it.  I don’t know what to do, you know.”  He hates the tension returning to his chest, the lump in his throat that’s making it hard to say any more.

Sherlock’s eyes look suspiciously full.  “But this is alright?”  He asks carefully.

“Yeah,” John breathes.  “Yeah, this is nice, and…”

Sherlock looks up, and the hope in his eyes is unmistakeable.

“I’m not saying I don’t want that—what you’re talking about.  I’m saying I don’t know how to give it.  I don’t know what you need from me.”

“I want to look at you.”

“You _are_ looking at me.”  John is incredibly frustrated, but he’s trying not to let it show.  He feels an utter failure, and he has only very rarely felt that in the bedroom.

“No, John.  I mean, see you—really look.  Like before, only…  I won’t touch this time.  I’ll just—I’ll just look.”

“You can touch.”

“Best not, not right away, don’t you think?”

John just shakes his head.  “I don’t know.” 

Sherlock’s eyes have found his again.They’re holding fast, digging deep in that way that makes John squirm, but holds him captive all the same.“Do you trust me?”He finally asks.

John shivers at the intensity, draws in a shaking breath.  He nods.  “Yes.”

“If I asked you to do things, would you do them?”

John nods.

“Say yes or no.”

John swallows tightly.  “Yes.”

“And you’ll remember the rule?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nods, and then props himself up on one arm to stare down at him.  “Go stand over there.  Where you were before.”

“Why?”

Sherlock arches a brow.  “John.”

“Okay.  Yeah.  Okay.”  And he gets up and goes, feels ridiculously self-conscious standing in the centre of the room completely naked, facing the bed, where Sherlock sits, eyes wandering over John’s body as though looking for something—what, John hasn’t the faintest.

“Turn around.”

John hesitates, and Sherlock’s eyes soften.  “No touching.  I promise.”

So John turns around, shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he hears the soft swish of the mattress shifting and Sherlock’s almost imperceptible footfall on the carpet.  “Don’t turn,” Sherlock orders quietly.

John’s skin prickles in anticipation.  No touching, Sherlock had said, had promised, but…

“What are you doing?”

“Shh…”

John rolls his shoulder, and clenches his left hand in an attempt to dissipate the tension.  He can still feel the ghost of Sherlock’s touch from earlier, clinging to the scar tissue like a fading memory. 

He senses Sherlock’s movement, feels the heat of him as he draws closer, a slight shift in the energy along his back.  He doesn’t turn, but he doesn’t have to.  Sherlock is standing so close, that if John were to shift his weight back on his heels just a little, he would be flush against him, Sherlock’s cock resting against the cleft of his arse.  It’s tempting.  His own cock is growing half-hard again at the thought.  

But no.  No touching.  Sherlock said.  He agreed.

Sherlock leans in, his lips a mere inch from John’s shoulder, just stays there, his breath wafting warm and damp against John’s skin, and John’s eyes slide shut.  Every inch of his body is suddenly alive and thrumming in expectancy.  He feels Sherlock move, hover and breathe against his neck, down to his nape, between his shoulder blades, up, over to his other shoulder.  When one of Sherlock’s wayward curls accidentally brushes against his neck, he gasps.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs low, and deep.

“No, it’s—it’s fine.”  John is embarrassed at how needy he sounds, his voice breathless and thready.  

“Mmm…” Sherlock hums, kneels.

John shivers, and then whimpers, his breath going shamelessly ragged when he feels Sherlock’s breath hot against the backs of his thighs, inching up over the rise of his arse, and down the cleft.

“Are you alright?”  Sherlock’s voice is low, and husky in a way John has never heard before.

“Yes.”

Sherlock takes his time.  He finds places that make john go rigid and thirsty with arousal, all with nothing more than the whisper of breath against his skin—the backs of his knees, the spot where inner thigh meets arse.  He’s humming with it by the time Sherlock gets slowly to his feet again, steps close, drops his head to the crook of John’s neck.  

He’s not touching, but his curls trail along John’s skin, and his breath is hot against his ear when he speaks, “I’m going to look at the rest of you.”  It’s a statement, the tone is undeniable, but there is a kind of question in it too.  John could say stop now if he wanted, but Christ, _why_ would he want to?!  He just nods.

It’s slightly jolting to suddenly have Sherlock there in his line of sight.  A different level of intimacy, and John realises the rightness in how Sherlock started this off.  What would have been impossible before, almost seems inevitable now, and he’s hungry for it, so hungry he would do almost anything.

Sherlock’s pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black, his chest, and shoulders, and cheeks tinged pink, his lips slightly parted as his eyes drag over John’s body, taking in and cataloging every detail.  

John’s eyes drop to Sherlock’s cock, dark, flushed, twitching with desire, and his mouth waters.

“Look at my eyes,” Sherlock orders.

John’s eyes snap back up, and he feels his face heat.

Sherlock gifts him with a tender smile.  “You’re sure you’re alright?”

He nods.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock murmurs. 

John does.

When he feels Sherlock’s body warm the space in front of him, and his breath steal across his eyelashes, he leans forward on instinct, but Sherlock just chuckles and pulls back.  “Not yet.”  The promise in those two simple words nearly makes John’s knees buckle.

“Yet?”

“Shh…” Sherlock whispers, and then steps close again.

“Please,” John whispers, without even knowing what he’s asking for.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he steps away.  John can feel it, somehow.  He still has his eyes tight shut, but he feels the loss acutely.

“Wait,” Sherlock replies.  “Can you do that?  Can you wait just awhile longer?”

John nods.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock returns the moment the promise is out of John’s mouth, and his breath wafts warm, and mint-sweet over John’s eyelids, cheeks, lips, jaw, down his throat and over his chest.  He takes his time, lingers in some spots, whispers John’s name against others.

John is dizzy, and he sways a little, almost reaches out for Sherlock on instinct to steady himself.  He catches himself just in time.

“Alright?”  Sherlock asks from somewhere much lower than John had intuited.

John draws in a shaky breath.  “Yeah.”  He can feel warmth where Sherlock’s hands hover near his thighs, and the whisper of his breath across his hip bones, the small hairs beneath his navel, over the head of his cock, and that’s when his knees finally go weak.  “Jesus…”

Sherlock’s breath is coming is small shallow puffs against the heated skin, and John suddenly wonders if he might come from only that.  It is taking every ounce of his strength to stay on his feet, and he is leaking, his head slick with pre-come.  He won’t last much longer. “Sherlock, I can’t…”

“John…”  Sherlock’s voice is wrecked and worshipful, something between inebriation and ecstasy, and the sound of his name like that, murmured like a prayer on Sherlock’s lips, is too much.

John opens his eyes, looks down.  He expects reprimand, but Sherlock just looks up at him, eyes glassy, lips moist, and cheeks pink, and says his name again, “John.”  It sounds small, and hungry, and a just a little desperate.  

“Bed,” is the only reply John can manage, and Sherlock obeys without a word.  He scrambles to his feet, and the settles atop the rumpled sheets on his back.  

“John, I can’t—much longer.  I’m so…”

“I know.  Me too.  I _can_ touch you now, yeah?”

“Please,” Sherlock nearly whimpers.

And that is all is takes.  John doesn’t even know what he’s about, all he can think of is touch, skin-on-skin, shared breath.  He’s never needed anything or wanted anyone so much.  

There’s a desperate sort of fumbling for a second or two, until they find the way their bodies fit together.  John’s so hard it aches.  He needs to come.  He’s going to come, without the slightest…  Sherlock rolls his hips, and somehow that’s it, the way their cocks slot in beside one another between their bellies, and the perfect friction it provides, and if Sherlock does that one more time John knows that…  

“Fuck.  Oh Christ.  Oh Sherlock, please…”   He buries his face in Sherlock’s neck, reaches up, twines his fingers in his hair and holds on tight as they find their rhythm.

“John, I…”

“Yeah, I know.  It’s okay…  Just…  It’s okay.”

“John…”

“I’m here.  It’s okay…”

Sherlock’s head is thrown back, his eyes closed, chest heaving, and John can’t help himself, he kisses him--lips against his clavicle, his exposed throat, tongue against flesh, just the briefest taste.  He tastes like salt, and sex, and something wholly undefinable that John recognises as uniquely Sherlock.  

He tastes like home.

Sherlock let’s out a whine, followed by a desperate moan, and then his back arches, and he is saying John’s name, nothing but John’s name, over and over as he comes in hot pulses between them, clings to John like he’s drowning, wraps his legs around his hips, pinning him close, as though no amount of contact will ever be enough.  

Everything is hot, and slick, and perfect, and Sherlock’s fingers are still pressing into John’s back firm enough to leave bruises, his breath still coming in hot gasps against John’s forehead when John feels his own release finally catch him.  

It’s electric, full body, a revelation.  He doesn’t make a sound, just cries out soundlessly, pants and whimpers into the crook of Sherlock’s neck as wave after wave of perfect pleasure wash over him, wringing him out, breaking and mending him all at once.  And when he finally crumples in exhaustion, Sherlock’s fingers find their way into his hair, ghost down his back—small, light touches that ground him and bring him down slowly.  

He drifts.

When he finally comes back to himself it’s grown dark and grey outside.  The distant rumble of thunder breaks the late afternoon quiet of the flat.  John sighs, shifts a little against the warm body beneath him.

“Jesus…” he murmurs against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock chuckles softly, and smiles down at him, all heavy lids and tousled curls.  “There you are…  Hello.”

John smiles back.  “Hi.”

“You look—satisfied.”

John let’s out a small laugh, and nods against Sherlock’s chest.  “You could say that, yeah.”

“It was alright, then?”

“More than…  Christ, Sherlock, that was the most…  It’s never been like that—never.”

“Really?”  Sherlock’s voice is hushed and incredulous, but John can hear the satisfaction there, too.  He’s pleased.

John nods again in confirmation.  “Really.”  He shifts a little, and then props himself up on one arm to stare down at him. 

Sherlock’s eyes are searching in return, his brow furrowed.  He’s thinking.  He’s thinking too much.  “Are you alright?”  He finally murmurs with so much sincerity, so much naked, open affection that it makes John’s throat go tight with emotion.

John nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I…”  He swallows tightly.  Something has shifted.  Something momentous and inevitable has passed between them here in this warm, breathless room, on a perfectly mundane Thursday afternoon in mid-July.  “I love you, you know.  So much, I…”  

He should be embarrassed by the bite he feels at the corner of his eyes, at the overwhelming, all encompassing adoration he knows must be written all over him, but he finds he isn’t.  It feels like a small miracle.

Sherlock smiles, and looks away almost shyly for the briefest of moments, but he finds John’s eyes again just as quickly, his own full of wonder.  “Do you?”  Surprised all over again, as though every time John says it is the first, every time equally a surprise.

John nods.  “Yeah.”

And the smile Sherlock gifts him, then, is full and bright, one of those rare smiles reserved only for John.  “Me too,” he whispers.

“Come here.”

Sherlock curls into him, let’s John press his lips to his, kiss him slow, and sweet, and deep, until their limbs are tangled and sweat slick, and they are beautifully breathless all over again. 

When they finally pull apart, Sherlock beams, and then glances down, taking in the length of their dishevelled bodies.  “We’ve made a bit of a mess.”

John smiles back, full and pleased, his heart aching with affection.  “Yeah, we have.  Bath in a bit, I think, yeah…?  Maybe not so hot this time.”

Sherlock arches a brow, and sits up, smiling at John flirtatiously from beneath his lashes.  “Oh, I don’t know—it seemed to have satisfactory enough results the last time.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Naked [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128670) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




End file.
